(no subject)

[sunnydalealum]

It's five-thirty at the offices of Wolfram & Hart New York, and the regular workday is winding down.

Some people, of course, don't leave till much later, even under ordinary circumstances.

Which these are decidedly not.

"I'll need as many of you on guard as I can get." Emma's walking fast as she speaks, coming down the hall from her office, her heels clicking on the hallway floor. Brianna, soft-footed in sneakers and carrying an incongruous guitar case, keeps pace on her right; a handful of others trail in her wake. "All of you, ideally. Start calling now, and let's see if we can get everyone in by eight, start things rolling by nine -- Ajani?"

Comments

[sunnydalealum]

An indrawn breath sounds from near the door. "That--"

No telling how long Beth has been standing there watching, but right now she's staring, looking horrified.

"That's Ms. Ryder, she's with the Council. She teaches at the Academy."

[sunnydalealum]

The ripple of reaction that runs through the room is audible, this time.

"Does she." Emma's eyebrows rise, and her look of enlightenment slowly fades into one of calculation. "Good catch, Beth. Thank you."

[amazongeneral.livejournal.com]

There's some pity for Beth, although she doesn't bother to look over to the door; she knows the voice.

There's no real change to her expression. She doubts it changes much for Emma's plans.

[sunnydalealum]

"If the Council sent you...." Emma's foot taps at the floor. "You've been here too long for this to have been your primary objective. Do they know the Scythe is here, or was this on your own initiative?"

She waits for a moment, not really expecting a response.

"You haven't got much time, you know," she adds. "Even a Slayer's healing factor won't hold off that poison for long."

[comm-npc-2.livejournal.com]

"Slayer?"

One of the demon's hands comes up as though to feel the texture of the air before it, and it lets out a lilting whistle that might be laughter.

"You have been deceived, aemmabal'whinn. This one is no Slayer."

[sunnydalealum]

Emma twists around sharply to stare at the demon, the color draining from her face.

"What do you --" She stops, and starts over in a steadier voice. "What do you mean?"

[sunnydalealum]

Around the room, the zhirelin exchange uneasy glances.

Beth's staring at Emma. At the unguarded look of shock on her face.

It's not the same look as the one she wore earlier; it's more strained, more off-balance. More -- her mind shrinks back from the thought, but it's there, too late to avoid it -- more real.

(And they're both using the word Slayer.)

[comm-npc-2.livejournal.com]

The robed demon shrugs. "Power she has, but not of that line. Surely you saw how easily she was disarmed? The weapon does not speak to her as it does to them." A flick of its blue-scaled hand in no particular direction indicates the zhirelin standing about the room.

"And the taste of her power is different. No trace of --"

[sunnydalealum]

"Thank you," Emma cuts in. Too sharply, and she seems to realize it; with a visible effort, she composes herself.

"Thank you, cliath'tah. Would you please give us a moment? I'll have my people see to your apprentices."

[sunnydalealum]

By this time the injured and dazed zhirelin have all picked themselves up; one is helping Mary-Anne, who's cursing under her breath over a broken quill. Ha'krt, supporting the cliath'tah's injured apprentice, comes forward at the cue; he and Emma confer briefly, quietly, and then he turns to leave with the two robed demons in tow.

Beth's still standing by the door, and steps aside to allow them past her. There's something tugging at the edges of her attention, and she can't think what it is yet.

It's not until Mary-Anne brushes a foot through the little heap of ashes on the floor that she realizes: in all the fighting, the only one killed was the vampire.

[amazongeneral.livejournal.com]

Philippus glances up at the departing two, curious as to where they're going and how long it will take to replace the one who turned himself into a hellhound.

. . . of all the transformations--but it worked. If she'd had her real bracelets it could have gone differently.

She glances back at Emma, curious as to what she'll do, but stoic. She's certain the woman's going to order her killed, and the only matter left is how Philippus is going to face it.

She wishes again, before she puts it aside, she could have died in Hippolyta's service; she regrets that she's so many stories from Gaia's palm; she regrets not having spoken more of peace, although to Slayers the teachings were not of so much immediate help.

She will never admit to anyone her gratitude that the hands restraining her are, at least, not men's.

[sunnydalealum]

"Okay, Erica -- I want you back down in the lobby, see if the others are here yet. Profuse apologies, we've hit an unexpected delay, and I'll be down myself to see them shortly."

As Erica moves to the door, Emma leans down to bring her face near the prisoner's. Her smile is edged and barbed, barely concealing rage.

"If you'd broken up the spell and escaped with the Scythe, it might have been worth breaking your cover. As it is?" She leans in closer and drops her voice to a confidential whisper: "I think maybe you screwed up."

[amazongeneral.livejournal.com]

If Philippus wasn't aware Emma hadbeen thrown off-balance, unexpectedly learned the Council was most onto her, gotten a major setback, and learned the Council had Slayer-but-not agents at least some of them considered expendable (and Philippus had to consider she was an unexpected addition to the Council's forces; what was it mortals said? "Easy come, easy go?") that might be discouraging.

As it is? Emma's judgement call remains Emma's. What happened, happened.

[sunnydalealum]

Still in that horribly intimate whisper: "If you want to report your failure back to the Council? I suggest you run. If you can. Without an antidote you've got maybe fifteen minutes."

She rises from the crouch, smoothing down the front of her skirt with tiny precise gestures as she straightens, and speaks without taking her eyes from Philippus's. "Brianna. Juliet. Show our guest out."

On the last word, there's a tiny movement of her chin in the direction of the window.

[sunnydalealum]

Brianna nods curtly, and shifts her grip to haul Philippus to her feet. Juliet follows suit.

Windows above a certain floor level in Manhattan aren't supposed to open wide enough to admit a human being through, for safety reasons. Unless they open onto a fire escape, which this one doesn't -- the fire escape is some yards away, accessible through a different room.

All that means is that somebody's going to have to get the glass replaced tomorrow.

[amazongeneral.livejournal.com]

Brianna's going to give her a chance to what? --oh. Well! That does change the whole "dying far from Gaea" story. Not exactly for the better. . .

Philippus considers the drop, more than enough to harm even a daughter of Gaea. There aren't many options here.

Except one: the one they really won't expect, or at least have time to do much about. There's three rows of decorative projecting brickwork between the twelfth story and the ground, the sills are ornate. . . she can grab one.

Of course, given the strength of the two, she's likely to be propelled past them all. So she braces herself, hard, against their hands just before they reach the window. . . and then goes with it as they brace against her resistance, bringing both hands up over her head. The sound of the glass breaking is a jolt in her ears, almost as much as the sudden wrap of the wind; she catches the wall as she goes out with one foot to slow herself, clamps one hand to the ledge as she starts to fall out. It's not enough to stop her, but she doesn't want to be stopped. She just wants to be able to hook the sill with one foot.

She hangs for a moment, headfirst, over the street; she looks only as far down as the next window. She wants to look up reflexively, but fights that; there must be glass falling still. She draws her arms into a meditative pose, blocking out the ache, locking her mind onto her next objective.

And then she points her toe.

[sunnydalealum]

If she does look up at any point in the next several seconds, she's going to see Brianna silhouetted in the broken window, staring down at her openmouthed.

She can't do that. None of them can do that.

[amazongeneral.livejournal.com]

Nah. She's busy. Also, it's going to completely burn through her remaining luck if she stupids glass into her eyes.

She'd like to catch the next sill and haul herself in and take the stairs. She really, really would; but she's falling and she's at the wrong angle and she doesn't know how much of her strength remains. She can only grab the sill enough to twist right-side up. If she grabs the next sill, bounces herself off the wall of the building, and tears her grip loose, she'll likely be too far away for another handhold.

She can only slow her fall.

So she does. By the time she reaches the first strip of decorative brickwork she's going fast enough she has to grab with both hands, and has to let go with the upper one to grab more solidly with the injured arm, fingers burning enough from the rough brick that she feels it even through the haze of adrenaline. She has to let go again as soon as she's jerked her weight on the injured arm; she's falling once more, from sill to sill.

[sunnydalealum]

The windowsills and other projections that are helping slow her fall are also helping in another way: they're gradually cutting off line of sight from the window.

Brianna steps back when she can't see the falling figure anymore, and looks over her shoulder at Emma.

"She might ... survive the fall," she says, unease and disbelief and apprehension mingling in her voice. "Should I take a team after her --?"

[sunnydalealum]

"No," says Emma, sharply again. "No, I want everybody to stay here. There's no time to go after her."

She turns and strides across the room, toward the door. "We can still do this tonight."





It will be some minutes yet before they discover the hacked-apart root, which will mean that they can't do it tonight after all.

By the time anyone checks the pavement below the broken window, nothing will be left but the glass.